Eyes Of The Devil
by The Last Letter
Summary: Yes, he made her whole, but how much more could her tattered heart take?
1. Chapter 1

_It irks me when I get burned_

_And I realize, I don't get hurt_

_And always, it seems I've lost my way_

_When I feel you, it's not enough_

_And I need you to shun my touch_

_I notice the season's ripe for change_

She closes her eyes, curling up in the bathroom. The tile floor is tilting and cold underneath of her, but she keeps her legs tucked underneath of her, steadying herself. She leans her head back against the wall, pulling up one sleeve of her sweater. She flicks her light with her other hand, the bright flame illuminating her delicate features. Without looking at what she was doing she brought the flame to her arm. It licked across her wrists, joining the plethora of burn scars that had come before it.

Slowly, she pries open her deep purple eyes, focusing on the flame on her skin. She should feel something. She should feel the heat of the fire; the pains of her burning flesh. But there is nothing. She can't feel a thing. She hasn't felt a thing in six long months and she misses it. She misses the emotions and she misses _him_; he who caused her to fly to her emotional highs, heart singing the entire time.

There is a knock at the bathroom door. She pulls down her sleeve, concealing the lighter in her palm. "Yes?" She calls to the intruder of her quiet time, her time to sit and try to move on.

"Vi, Dad says we need to leave. He wants to get there early to make sure we get a good seat."

Her throat closes at her brother's words. The trial. She doesn't want to go to the trial but she has to. It's expected of her.

Woodenly, she stands, stumbling to the door, tracing Dash's footsteps to the car.

(-.-)

She's well aware that she's not allowed to be here. She's also aware that, if the agency knew that someone could slip past their defenses, get into see one of the prisoners, they would probably lose their minds. The agency is supposed to be airtight; untouchable. And it would be . . . but not to one of their own. She knew the ins and outs of the guards, the locks on the cells, the safety measures. She knew how to bypass all of them, her powers being designed for slipping past unnoticed.

She's quiet. The guards don't notice her. Security doesn't notice her. And even when she's inside of his cell – wall to wall metal that he can't escape from – he doesn't notice her right away. She stops, pausing for a beat, to take him in. It has been so long since she was in his presence (_six months, six months without him, without loving him, without him loving her, six months without his touch, his grace, she needs him and to have him in front of her is mind blowing)_ that she cannot think. He is leaning against the far wall – one hand out in front of him for balance as he is on an angle. His other hand is on his forehead, rubbing his temples. He is half bent at the waist, his fiery hair almost brushing the metal. He looks near broken, not the confident man she loves.

She becomes visible, the air rippling and shimmering around her. He notices that he is not alone then, straightening and stiffening. He is expecting guards. He is expecting to be marched into the courtroom and found guilty. He is expecting to turn around and face the sentence that is surely coming: execution. What he is not expecting when he turns around is the reason he found himself captured in the first place: the girl he fell in love with.

But here she is.

He meets her eyes and she melts on the inside. How she has craved those eyes, that breathtaking face, this meeting again! In the dead of night when all was supposed to be whispered and quiet, she'd been burning from the inside out with her need to be near him. She'd been crying for him from somewhere deep inside her mind and it had been white-hot; desperate.

She knew that it wasn't supposed to be like this: she wasn't supposed to love him or need him. She'd been a victim of his; a kidnapping. They didn't know that she had run away with him. How could she have explained that to her family: a super was running away with a villain; a seventeen-year-old girl was running away with a man who was closer to thirty than he was twenty; their little girl was running away with someone who had once tried to hurt her in the worst way possible. Nothing would have worked but she had loved him long before she had left with him and it was something that no one else but the two of them could have understood.

She had been lost before she fell for him; he had found her. Being with him for that year, when it was just the two of them and the entire world was right, she knew that she had found her place in the universe. She belonged in his arms and he belonged in hers and nothing could tear him away from that, nothing at all. Until her parents had barged in, being the heroes they were, yelling and shouting about how he kidnapped their daughter, how he should be arrested, and bellowing proof of all the evil that he had committed over his lifetime. She had hid behind him, curling into a ball and trying to pretend it wasn't happening. He wasn't in cuffs and she wasn't losing him. This was a nightmare. She would wake up.

She was still waiting to wake up.

"Violet." He breathes, her name as sweet as honey on his lips.

"Buddy," she whispers in return, the name dripping from her tongue like a rare diamond; a treasured jewel she was tired of hoarding to herself.

He's frozen and so is she. She wants to reach out to him, to hold his strong body in her arms and curl against him like nothing has changed. She can't. She doesn't know if he hates her – they both know it's her fault he's here. She doesn't know if he still aches for her like she aches to him. It has been so long since she has been with him that she has forgotten the subtle nuances of their relationship: the way his breath curled when he wanted to say something and couldn't find the words; the way his eyes would dart from over her head, to her eyes, to her lips when he wanted her to come closer to him; the way he would talk in his sleep, low and fast like a cassette being played backwards but how she collected every word; how his limbs stretch out when he takes a seat, finding it necessary to take all the space he can. She wants for him to make the first move, to reteach her the steps of a dance she should have dedicated herself to knowing.

He has words stuck in his throat, words he spits on the ground, dirty and ugly. "Are you testifying against me?"

She's horrified he asks and so is he but he needs to know. Is she here for her goodbye? Her 'I'm sorry but it wasn't real'? She shakes her head quickly, black-blue-purple strands flying about before settling back against her head.

"No," she assures him, the words bubbling and grating against her vocal cords. "I pretended as though I forgot everything. They said I had repressed it due to trauma. They said they had enough on you without me." She pauses. "I would have stood up for you."

"They would have thought that was my fault too; psychological abuse."

"It wasn't abuse!" She cries, suddenly angry at this line of thought. He never would have abused her. He treated her like a porcelain doll; too beautiful and too fragile. "I loved you. I still love you."

"I've always loved you," he added, his eyes boring into hers.

And, suddenly, there's no more space between them. His hands are hot and heavy on her waist; his mouth a volcano against hers. There's roaring in her ears, louder than the ocean, as he pulls her flush against his body. His body which is all hard muscle and hollow bones; which is more familiar to her than her own is still as she remembers. It's still the same scars and the same freckled flesh that she had admired in the sunrise hours as the golden light turned him into a god. And yet, it's not enough. It's not enough to have him with her physically for this moment in time before the trial starts and he's torn away forever.

She needs them to be as they were before. She needs to hold his heart in her hands, feel his soul between her ribs as she breathed, her own vital organs with him as he slept next to her. She wants him to push her away; as much as she loves him she's got this warped sense of justice and she knows that she needs to be punished for what she has done to him. He doesn't deserve a prison cell; doesn't deserve to be sentenced to death (for what else would the agency do with him? He's much too dangerous to live; much too clever for life in prison. They have no other move, if they do anything else, he wins and they can't have that). She wants him to push her away, tell her that she's hurt him because she's been doing nothing but hurting over him. She needs the pain to suddenly become real; to fully feel it. She needs him to push her away so she can balance the scales, so that her rescue plan for him is a path to forgiveness. (She cannot believe that he has forgiven her already because she hasn't forgiven herself).

He's breathing hard as he drops his head onto her shoulder, eyelashes fluttering against her pulse point.

"I'm going to die," he admits to her, only her, the truth in his bones. "Thank you for coming to see me one last time."

"It's not one last time," she says sternly, grasping his forearms with such strength that he almost doesn't believe it's his delicate girl. "We're getting out."

"I'm not asking you to do this for me," he pulls away from her. If she gets caught, she'll be in the same place he's in now and he would rather suffer a thousand eternities in hell than have her in prison for one day; to know that he was the reason she was going to be executed; to know that he has hurt her.

She reaches up, cradling his strong jawbone in the cup of her hand, her fingernails lightly scratching his cheek as he leans into her.

"It's not just for you," her voice is barely audible as she speaks her selfish facts aloud for the first time, "I'm doing this for _me_."

Her eyes are shiny and wet as she studies his face, heart breaking with his beauty.

"I love you and I need you and I can't exist without you in my life. I need you safe and happy but it's for my sake too."

He offers her his hand and she gladly takes it, hooking herself to her lifeline. Slowly, she extends her powers over the both of them. They're encased and she's glad for his sure footedness, his survival skills, his ability to know exactly when to follow her lead. They walk out. They walk past the guards that are supposed to be monitoring him. They walk past the lawyers and agency officials that are waiting to sentence him – to kill him. They walk past those gathered, like her family, to make sure he pays for his crimes. They walk past the media, hyped for this case.

They walk onto the street. He starts leading her. He has hidden bunkers all over the world. He can take of care her – has been doing so for so long. Though still invisible to the world, she's incredibly seen by him. He wraps his arms around her shoulders and kisses her temple. Their life won't be easy – they'll be on the run until they die – but it will be worth it to spend every night next to him. She's lived the majority of her life in black and white but now there are many more colours; the colours of him.

She wants to explore them all.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my glorious beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Eyes Of The Devil**_** by **_**Seether**_**.**

**~TLL~**


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm weak_

_I'm weak_

They're underground. Literally. He has been working a lot, making covert connections in the world, trying to secure their safe passage out of the country, trying to start setting up businesses again so they have money to live off of (he has dollars in offshore accounts but that won't last forever; living is expensive these days). She knows that once all this calms down and they settle into the rhythm of life that she is so excited for they will become more _them_ again. _Them _without the worry of the law and the worry of being found. They won't be found this time. She's determined.

But that doesn't make her any less lonely and any less empty feeling as she sits on their bed in the bunker alone. He's locked inside of an office the size of her pinkie finger and sometimes she can hear his voice reverberate through the door, sending her heart hammering in her throat because she feels as though she's lived an eternity without that voice and some days his voice in her heard was the only thing that kept her going. He's here but she's still aching because he's trying to set up a _life_ and all she wants is to hold him _now_.

She adjusts her legs over the heavy comforter they share. A mix of his cologne, her perfume, and the scent of sleep wafts up to her, whispering across her face and settling into her nose. Like she has so many times before (before in the six months without him; when she was alone and completely numb and desperately fighting to feel something beyond the overwhelming emptiness that existed inside of her soul when he was there to make her feel whole) she pulled the sleeve of her sweater up over her pale arm. It's crossed with burn marks so completely that the underside of her arm has turned a completely different colour than the rest of her milky flesh; pale and washed of colour as she is.

She brushes her fingertips over her scars and her heart thumps inside of her broken chest, hard against the bones that barely feel as though they can hold her body. She couldn't feel the making of the scars but now she can feel herself running her hand along the burnt tissue and she wonders what this means. She has changed from being in his presence again, though it hasn't been that long she's already altered again beyond imagining and she's enjoying being whole. It's shaped her entire insides but when he was gone, when she couldn't have him, she had felt hollowed out; an unfortunate pumpkin on Halloween, cut and carved, diced and slashed, by a clumsy child's hand.

Except she is the clumsy child.

She's not sure what he would be in this scenario.

She had been broken before he had arrived. Though she had been young – so very young –her insides had already been twisted and her brain was already exhausted. She had been fighting for many years; had acquired battle scars. She had been constantly on the move, body worn by actions it didn't have the energy or ability for but she pushed it to anyway. Her brain was worn down from the constant questions of _morals,_ of _right_, of _wrong_. There were villains and there were heroes but she wasn't entirely sure which one she was anymore. Was she a hero because she had saved a young boy's life? Was she a villain because she'd had to sacrifice the life of a super villain to do so? She was half of a hero; half of a villain: a mutation that most supers didn't even consider but she had never been normal. She had never fit in. She was odd in her family and she was odd in society and nothing was ever going to change that.

Except for him.

He'd found her when she was collapsing on unsteady legs, shaping her strength back. He'd turned her from a sacrificial lamb (bleeding at the altar of her own mind she'd been ready to let go of her slowly beating heart) to a lion who's paws could knead at the earth and who's roar could be heard if she just _tried_. She knew the lion was there – she kept it caged beneath her ribs because it scared her sometimes and her hands shook when she thought about the roar – but she had never had to use it._ He_ knew that she was mighty without her having to prove it; he could hear her without her having to try. He could treat her like a delicate lamb because that was the clothing she was comfortable with wearing.

She had always been the kid with potential. Dash had been the troublemaker. Jack-Jack had evolved from average to exceptional. She'd been labeled with potential. She could have been great. She could have fallen to the black hand of fate. She could have become anything she wanted because she had _potential_. It was utilized by her parents (look we have the perfect kid with the perfect grades and the beautiful looks); by the agency (look at these unique skills sets, I'm seeing recon and stealth missions, I'm seeing a whole new set of opportunities here); by the teachers (go help him, you've got your work done, can you do this, _and this_, **and this**_**, and this**_). She had potential and they all looked at her to go to beautiful heights – hero heights.

When they found her in the hands of _Syndrome_ (she hates that old moniker because _Syndrome_ doesn't exist anymore – he was a childhood villain who graced her nightmares but now there was Buddy, and Syndrome never could have existed in the same place; he had been Buddy all along, he had just been wearing the wrong clothing) they would never have believed she had walked into his arms of her own will. They would never have believed that she was willing to throw away potential for love; for someone who was being hunted.

But he was _Buddy_ and she loved him and he was nothing like they saw him.

She hears footsteps and glances up. He has emerged from his office. There is a smile on his lips and his teeth shine like pearls.

"I did it," he tells her. "How do you feel about London?"

She feels like it's a good place for them to start.

He stretches out along the bed and she reaches over, watching her pale fingers disappear into the orange of his hair; soft and coarse all at once along her palms. She kisses his forehead – it's chaste and impulsive and makes him give a deep chuckle.

"Soon," he says with conviction, "you won't have to be anything."

She grins at his words. He's understood more than anyone else how she always felt as though her identity were being carved by other people; being shaped by hands she had never held. She had always felt as though there were a mold ready for her (you **must** be this because we will not accept you any other way) and he had felt that pressure on his broad shoulders too.

"Neither will you." She assures him and his face echoes her grin.

"We can be whatever we want to be."

This makes her happy; the lion against her ribs seems to purr while the lamb continues to bleed. He looks down at her, seeing the scars that decorate her arm – the ones she inflicted and he feels obligated to kiss every one of them. He can almost read her thoughts in the attempts to feel pain; they are forever written on her and he will not escape what he has done to her as long as he sleeps next to her and loves her and knows that she was his to take care of and he failed her. He knows how she feels about herself and how it changes and evolves like a butterfly in a cocoon even though her cocoon is caught in a spider's web.

He rests her back against the bed, kissing from the tip of her middle finger along the print of burns to the crook of her elbow. His lips rub against material and he tugs the shirt away from her. The cold air whistles across her body – a ghostly caress that causes goose bumps to bubble across her flesh. He breathes against her shoulder and she's breathing against his. There's a yin yang feel to their tandem breathing – the ins and outs of every day don't seem so every day with her; all suddenly turned into a miraculous exploration that will never get old.

He's on her collarbones and she's on his buttons, her warmth seeping through to his chest. He feels her on his heart; spinning and whirling like a graceful ballerina, taking over his life, his mind, his soul, his _everything _with absolutely no effort at all. She had looked him in the eye and he had seen who she was and he was gone, gone, gone. He'd been hers before she had even realized she could have him.

He's on the flat plane of her stomach, her ribs on his nose and he stops to feel her breathe. The cold is now on his back, along his top half, and there's something about sharing the moment and the air that makes her so much sweeter because she's his forever now and he's never letting them separate again.

There are her hipbones – sharp and jutting as they knock against his chin. She's all soft skin, rippling muscles, and bones that don't feel like his; hers are bones that move against his hands (big and rough as they are) shifting and rearranging to become something entirely new as he prompts. His bones don't yield no matter how much she batters against him but she doesn't have to try to change him; she just has to blink and he knows that as long as she's there he always has to strive to be better than what anyone ever expected of him – what he expected of him.

Her thighs are sweet. Her knees are at his ears. A lock of hair from him flops onto her knees and she laughs. It's pure and sweet and _real_. She doesn't have many real laughs and he treasures and counts every single one of them. They both move from the laugh and they are connected – you cannot touch one without affecting the other. They are not two halves of one whole but rather have always been the entire whole; never to be halved but threaded together by tendons and muscles and something stronger than anyone (even them) truly know.

She's hovering over him and her long dark hair is obscuring her features. He clears it away but he doesn't need to view her face to _see _her. She's imprinted on his eyelids and across his skin. She's a tattoo without the needle but with equal pain.

Their skin is melding together – milk to freckles to cream to slightly bronze – but it is seamless. You can tell the difference but there is no discerning where they were stitched together, where they once were separate beings, ignorant of the other's existence and who the other truly was, how much was waiting for them once they uncovered what they had been missing. His red hair and blunt features are a terrible contrast to his dark haired porcelain doll but that's okay because they're all about contrasts and being different even though they are completely, one hundred percent, the same.

They are both wounded and in love. They are both scarred and perfect. They are both the first breath of morning and the last gasp of night. They are pleasure and pain.

They are what the other needs to survive: they are air and water and sustenance. They are something else and this is where they fit – together in a bed where his hands stain her hips with bruises and her nails etch her name into his back.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my fantastic beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Eyes Of The Devil**_** by **_**Seether**_**.**

**~TLL~**


	3. Chapter 3

_So with every new lesson learned_

_I could keep you before it turns_

_And the knowledge that things won't be the same_

_Now I realize that you have won_

_And there's nothing to be said or done_

_And I notice the wind won't blow my way_

It's not exactly a new lesson but it's one that she hasn't learned so it must come back to haunt her. It's not as bad this time, she thinks. This time there is warning. This time they are on the street in London and he spots her parents. She's torn as she looks at their faces – broken and hopeful. They want her home; she can feel it. She can't go with them, can't even go up to them. She's made her choice and her choice is him, for better or worse. She can't breathe without him and she loves him so much that being away from him is painful. She's never putting herself through that again.

She grabs his hand and they disappear from view. They move quickly and stealthily, winding through the streets back to their apartment. It's all darting around each other as they throw necessities into bags and wipe away all traces that they were ever there. No fingerprints or DNA or carelessly forgotten photos. They are about to slip out the door, bags locked firmly in their hands, when he stops her, large hand wrapped around her bicep. She watches him with dark eyes, questioning eyes, hopelessly-in-love with him eyes.

"You could go with them you know," he says seriously. "You don't have to stay with me."

_How can he not understand yet?_ She wants to ask but keeps those words inside of her because it's not something that she can say. He doesn't take words at face value anyhow. He doesn't understand how, yes, she does have to stay with him. She loves him and it's purely out of selfish need that she keeps him tucked so close to her, that she can't bear to walk back to her parents because she's not able to take him with her. He makes up vital parts of her being; she can't tear her own heart out and live.

"I'm not going anywhere," she tells him. She couldn't.

He takes a moment to kiss her. It's soft and sweet and when she reflects on it, she realizes that it tastes of goodbye.

She opens the door while he throws a backpack over his shoulder. She comes face to face with her parents and she freezes. They seem surprised too – they're both in fighting stances and it seems to take them a moment to realize that she is not the threat. Neither is he but they don't realize that.

"Get behind me, Violet!" Helen Parr shouts, reaching for her daughter.

But she doesn't respond to her. She is creeping backward, hand searching for that of the redheaded man that she loves. She finds it – strong, sure, calloused – and holds it for all she has left. She doesn't know how they will get out of this. She's not sure she can fight her parents or that she can watch him do it. Escape is not an option. One does not escape Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl. He squeezes her hand and she's afraid to look at his face, afraid of what will be written there.

She knows that he'll give himself up rather than see her hurt. She knows that he'll give himself up rather than fight them. She knows she can't let him give himself up – she knows that he'll be taken back to the agency and there will be no trial, no semblance of justice for him this time. He will be sent straight to death, somewhere that she cannot reach him.

"Violet," her father murmurs. She looks at the first man she ever loved – her daddy, once her everything – and she thinks that her father understands her more than anyone else in her family. She thinks that her father could see that she wasn't in danger; she chose this life. He doesn't want to see it, and so never reads her face.

But he could.

"Come here," Bob's voice cracks across the couple like a whip.

It has suddenly become a reality that it is truly over this time. There will be no chance like there was the last time. Both sides have become too careful, too aware of what their enemies can do.

He has a death grip on her hand to match the one that she has on his. There's a tension running through their bodies – an electric current that is pounding through their hearts. She wants to wake up again – have a chance to do it all over again – but she's not going to have this chance. Her world is caving in around her; she's tilting toward a black abyss. She needs to kiss him one more time but she knows she won't get the chance. She hands her thumb across the back of his hand and tries to telegraph everything she's thinking and every feeling she's ever had for him through that motion. She tries to let him know everything that she can't say in front of her parents and everything that she'll never get the chance to tell him again.

"Don't hurt him," she says, looking her parents in the eye. She drops his hand as she cannot bear to look at him ever again. "And I'll go with you. Just let him go."

She can feel the anger from him. She can feel the rumble that's starting deep in his chest and is expanding across him. She wants to stop it and rein it in. She knows what it's saying. She knows the anger is at her for leaving him; for not trusting him to think them out of here. But she knows better. She knows that there is no getting out of here, not the way that they both want to. Maybe if he can escape and she pretends that she is their docile daughter and that she hates him, they can come back together one day.

She hopes that, underneath the anger, he will realize this is the best path, the only path.

Her mother's arms open, and she has no choice but to walk into them. She misses the feel of him next to her; his heat waving onto hers.

"We can't just let him walk away," her mother says and she tenses.

For her sanity, that is exactly what he must do.

"We can't take him safely," her father says in an equally quiet voice.

She perks. Maybe her father is more attuned to her than she thought.

"Violet is the important thing. The Agency will easily be able to find him later."

Thankfully, her mother agrees.

She is whisked out the door before she can think. She is down the steps of the apartment. She is onto the open street. They are getting into a car. They are heading for the airport. They are heading for the United States, Metroville, home. They are heading away from him.

She can feel her heart breaking for the second time in her life.

She sits still and stiff between her parents. Her useless lips remain closed because there is nothing more that she can say. Her boneless limbs lie like jelly because there is nothing more that she can do. She is trapped inside of her own mind; her mind which is still living in a tiny apartment on the London streets with the man she is in love with and the man she is not sure she will ever see again. There was something so final and complete about choosing to leave instead of being dragged away. She could have fought to stay next to him but what good would it have done? Her parents would have kidnapped her away from him. He would have been injured, killed, felled to a misguided justice. She could not have that fate for him.

She is ushered into her home. Her brothers greet her with excitement: has it really been so long since she has seen them?

She stands in the house that she doesn't feel as though she belongs in. It's too clean cut and it's too innocent. It's too void of him. She has laid her head here but he has never been beside her. His presence is not in this place except for as a bad memory to her parents and brothers. She touches the bright yellow walls of the kitchen and thinks that she and he both despised yellow. She wanders down the hallway – plastered with family photos and she looks at a photo of her from her elementary school years. She wonders how she could have smiled like that without knowing that he was in existence.

She continues on to her bedroom. It is made up of soft edges and pretty things; everything a little girl should be. Except that she isn't a little girl any longer; hadn't been for such a long time. And all she sees in the cute colours and pretty patterns are the agonizing nights that she'd spent wishing for him and the agonizing nights ahead spent wishing for him. She's hoping, hoping beyond hope, that he will be able to find her. She hopes he'll arrive in the dead of the night and spirit her away: it'll work this time because the third time is the charm and there can be no more mistakes for the two of them.

She sinks down on the bed. It's empty and much too large without him next to her – without his massive, warm, body taking up so much space and poking at her when as he claims that she steals all the blankets, though who would need blankets when he was a space heater? She's thinking that the pillows are much too soft when her mother walks in.

"How are you feeling?" Helen asks.

Violet blinks. She doesn't have any words to offer her mother – the woman who gave her life, but also stole the meaning of it away.

"I understand that you've been through a lot," her mother continues and her voice is much too sweet; too high and sugary.

She's suddenly suspicious.

"We're here for you, honey. And we're going to find the man that hurt you and we're going to make sure he gets his just rewards."

Those words are angry and bitter although there's still something behind the tone that she doesn't know what to make of. She wishes she could tell her mother the truth and that she would be believed. She was in love with someone who used to be a villain and he loves her back and it's all consuming and it's beautiful and _why can't anyone else see it_?

"We're just glad that you're home here with us; safe and sound where no one can get to you."

It's then that she realizes what lay behind those words. Her mother is smug. Her mother is feeling victorious because twice she has managed to get away, end up in the same arms, and her mother has been able to defeat this. Her mother may also be more intuitive than she was given credit for. Her mother must see the love in her eyes (as she wears it proudly; she loves that she's in love with him and would never think of hiding it) but must chalk it up to something else – Stockholm's syndrome, abuse, anything, but the truth.

But the truth doesn't matter because her parents have what they need – they have her. They have their perfect, potential riddled daughter back under their roof. She is being slipped back into the mold that she battled to escape, that no one else but him believed existed. Her parents don't care what she has to say because they've gotten what they want and nothing else is necessary.

She starts to cry and her mother draws her into a tight embrace; thinking that she is crying because she is so thankful for what they have done. That couldn't be further from the truth. She is crying because she doesn't know where he is or if she'll ever see him again and she doesn't know if she can live with it. She doesn't know if she can live with smug tones and lack of orange and so much goddamn yellow.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my amazing beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Eyes Of The Devil**_** by **_**Seether**_**.**

**~TLL~**


	4. Chapter 4

_So run with the eyes of the devil_

_And keep them in your dreams_

_If you succumb to the lies of the rebel_

_You'll cleanse yourself of me_

They're watching her reaction carefully.

She's sitting perfectly still. Her hair cascades around her shoulders and her hands are folded neatly into her lap. Her parents are placed on either side of her and are just as stiff as she is. While her parents are watching her, she is facing the Agent that has been assigned the Syndrome case. He is staring back at her.

"Do you understand?" The Agent presses, bringing her back to what was discussed only moments before.

She nods. She understands. She isn't stupid. Through the therapy that the Agency has offered, she has come to realize what her time with Syndrome was – captivity. As much as she had believed she had loved him, she had been shown the truth. A villain had taken advantage of her vulnerable nature.

Now, they want her to help bring him to justice. It would not do to have such a dangerous man running around. The Agency thinks that he will want her back; they think that he covets her. She doesn't know what she thinks of this idea – that someone covets her – but she agrees that he must face his judgment. She is a Super and they do not let villains slip through their hands.

"Good," the Agent smiles and absentmindedly she thinks that he looks like a predator. "We begin in the morning."

By begin it's meant that she gets dropped off in the same city as his last known location and they pray that he grabs her. It doesn't seem to be much of a plan. She supposes that it has been so long since there has been any solid evidence on the villain that the Agency is getting desperate. She nods her agreement again. She feels the harsh eyes of her mother and fire scoring across her, wondering if she can really do this. They're also wondering if they'll lose her again and they needn't worry about that. She is stronger now. The Agency has made sure that she knows right and wrong; the difference between what she truly feels and what he tells her she feels.

They're dismissed and her parents take her home for one final night before her mission.

(-.-)

** She can see herself but it's like looking into a carnival mirror. Everything about her is distorted and different. This isn't what she sees when she looks into a mirror. **

** The her-but-not stretches out her arm. The sleeve is pulled up, bunching around her arms. There are burn marks, deep and healed but never gone. As she watches, the burn mark on the not's arm begin to warp and change. They scurry over her skin, rearranging themselves to create a whole new picture. They outline her mother and father.**

** The not-her speaks. The voice is distant and off, as though it is bubbling up from underwater or a long forgotten place. "Do you feel them?" She demands, her big eyes flashing and endless. "Does your family make you feel whole and understood?"**

** The scars change again to create him.**

** This time the voice is not demanding, not strong. Now it is soft and sensitive – spun of cotton candy and lit upon the wings of angels. "Or does he make you feel? He is what makes you whole. He is what you long for. You can feel him, fluttering against you in the dead of night. You can feel his heat and his wonder."**

** She shakes her head, denying it. She knows better now. He is not wonderful. He is cruel.**

** The not-her senses her thoughts. "How dare you?" The not-her demands. "How dare you forget how much you loved him and how much he loved you? How dare you set out on a march of betrayal and think yourself noble?" The not-her spits in her face. "You disgust me. They've taken over you and you've let them."**

** She doesn't know how to reply to this so she doesn't. She watches the not-her, whose body is opaque and wavering like water. The not-her grabs her hand. She twists it up so that the tender arm, burn marks and all is exposed. The not-her runs a finger across the marks but she feels nothing. There is nothing to feel anymore. The not-her brings a lighter out of nowhere. When the flame lights, she thinks that it looks like his hair. When the not-her lowers the flame to her arm she feels nothing.**

** The not-her looks up at her again, meeting her eyes. "It's because you don't have him," not-her explains.**

** And then she wakes up.**

(-.-)

She's in Australia and it's so much hotter than she ever expected it to be. There's sweat dripping from her brow and she escapes into her hotel the second she can. It's much cooler in here than the sweltering out doors and she takes a moment to breathe in the icicles and feel them drip on her lungs. She checks in quickly and hits the melting streets. Her mission is simple. She's supposed to be _seen_. In this place of thousands of people, where being lost in the crowd is the norm, she's supposed to make herself known. She's not sure how to do this because no one ever sees her. She's constantly lost in the mix and match, come and go, ins and outs, of life.

But she walks into a crowded café and orders an iced coffee. She sits in the window and sips. She doesn't think this will accomplish anything but she feels better being away from her parents. She loves them dearly but they are overcrowding and her mother's voice grates on some hidden nerve of hers that she doesn't fully understand. She looks at her reflection in the window and wonders if the Agency is watching her now. They were nervous about letting her go with any of her psychiatrists and programs to help her remember that Syndrome is an enemy; they were worried about her falling back into his trap.

She thinks they underestimate her.

She finishes her coffee and decides to go shopping. She's not allowed to go back to her room unless it's to sleep. She finds her way to some shops and darts around. She's fingering fabrics and looking at postcards and contemplating souvenirs. She's just come to the conclusion that it's time for dinner (and that she should go somewhere fancy since the Agency is footing the bill and she can't really remember the last time she was spoiled but it sounds like such a good idea) when she sees it. It's the briefest flash and she doesn't think it's real but something in her heart is telling her that this is no time to doubt – that flash of orange was really there which means that he's really here which means that she's going to be captured again.

She breathes and tells herself that it's not going to be like the other times – the Agency has her back now.

She calmly walks down the street. She takes a shortcut through an alleyway and, sure enough, she is grabbed there. Large hands are resting on her hips and there is breath on her neck. Her skin shivers in reaction to the contact and she bites down hard on her lip. He is warm behind her, not helping the heat beaming down from the sun.

"Violet," the voice is low and sweet, bubbling and frothy, spilling into her ear.

Her knees buckle and she finds herself leaning against him. There's something in the voice, something that is clicking in her mind that she can't quite define. He's holding her up and there's something so tender in the way his fingers caress her skin that doesn't seem to be part of a super villain's actions.

She blinks and reminds herself that this is probably what he wants her to think. He wants her to think he loves her and that he cares about her because that's how he's gotten to her before. Swallowing, she turns around because the Agency expects her to play the part – she must play the part to bring him in and to help make the world a better, safer place.

His jaw is strong and his freckles bright. He smells like sunscreen and his hair is lit up like fire. His eyes are locked onto hers and her intestines are climbing into her throat from the amount that's in the gaze. He reaches up and touches her hair – long, dark, hot – and twines it around his finger. His chest heaves and there's words locked inside of his throat like they've been locked inside of hers.

"Violet," he repeats, having nothing left to say to the girl who is his entire world.

Her eyes close, obscuring his image for the briefest moment. She doesn't know how to play this (she never expected him to come for her no matter what the Agency said) and she needs him to take him to where he lives, where he operates. It's where the Agency needs to grab him at. She opens her eyes again, a smile gracing her lips. She runs her hand along his face and he leans into it. He brings her close to him again, body against body. It's been so long and so much has changed but he still leans down and whispers into her ear, "come with me?"

She nods and he takes her hand. She's gripping it lightly, nothing like the last time she held his hand and walked away but that's okay. They're together again and they always fit together and became one and time apart won't change that, won't change _them_.

He's nervous when he brings her to the place he's got in Australia. It's a small house and sometimes it feels like you're boxed in but it's a secure feeling too. She glides from room to room; a silent fairy. He wonders if someone has stolen her tongue. She's always been quiet but not with him. She's always let her words slip from her mouth to create something beautiful that he always revels in. When she returns from her quick search, she looks up to him lifting onto her toes as she does so, leaning in toward him.

He takes careful steps toward her. She's timid like a deer. And as he takes her hand, slow and sure, he feels her tense and he worries. Has someone hurt her in their time apart? There's something different in the way she is moving, the way she is looking at him that he has to come to that conclusion. What else could have happened but pain? And his poor girl, his poor beautiful girl with her graceful limbs and exquisite smile. No one should hurt her; it should be a crime.

He tucks her into his side. "I should let you know; I'm planning on leaving this place in the morning. I can still get you a ticket."

She nods, trying to look eager; trying to look like this is what she wants. Little does he know that there will be no more mornings for him, no more places for him to go. The Agency should be here before morning, before anything can happen to her. She watches as he buys her a ticket online. New Zealand. She's never been there but she's always liked the letter z. It would sit and vibrate on her tongue long after she closed her mouth.

All too soon it's time for bed and she's wondering if he's expecting her to lie next to him. He doesn't. He shows her to the guest room although there's some kind of longing in his eyes that makes her think that he wants her to turn it down, wants her to trot after him.

She doesn't. She lies down in the guest bed and closes her eyes. Her dream from last night comes parading back into her mind. She pulls her sleeve up, laying her arm in the faint light from the street light on the corner outside. Strange shadows are tossed onto her arm as she contemplates this piece of the past. The dream seemed to tell her that only he could make her feel. But she didn't believe that. She didn't depend on him for anything. She didn't need him. Not at all.

She pulls her sleeve down without feeling anything.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my amazing beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Eyes Of The Devil**_** by **_**Seether**_**.**

**~TLL~**


	5. Chapter 5

_It kills me to watch this fade_

_And I realize it's all charade_

_And every mistake I make is the same_

_I beseech you to let me drown_

_Will it please you to let me down_

_And no one can save me from the pain_

It's in the dawn hours. She's in the kitchen and he's sleeping. She can practically hear the in and out of his deep breath. She can almost feel it on her neck and she wonders why it makes her feel so much. Cautiously, she walks toward the bedroom she heard him go into last night. She leans her ear against the door and listens to him breathe. She imagines the rise and fall of his chest. She can imagine feeling it against her arm; her back. She wonders why she cares that she could feel it, ghostly and untrue but leaving some bittersweet ache inside of her.

She opens the door. He's lying there, sweet and innocent. She wonders, if she was truly ever a captive of his, why she would still be able to think of him as innocent. She takes a step into the room and the world seems to be a little smaller. As he's lying there, vulnerable and unaware, she thinks that he's beautiful. The sunrise bleeds through his window, falling across his body. The thought rises to her mind, unbidden and unknown, that he looks like a god.

It crashes over her like a wave. The Agency was lying to her – or just didn't know the truth. This was not Syndrome; not an evil villain whose only purpose was to bring her down, who wanted to hurt her and scar her. This was Buddy. She had loved him and she had once counted down the days until she could see him again; counted her hopes in the stars that it would be tomorrow that she could see him. She falls against the wall, legs suddenly too weak as she _remembers_. She remembers that it was real and that they loved one another and there's still something inside of her that is stretching for him and wanting for him and he's right there and –

Her hand flashes up to her mouth. What has she done? What has she done to him this time? She's thrown him to the wolves again and they're going to be here any second. She pries herself away from the wall, legs shaking. She sits herself down on the edge of the bed and tries to think about how to do this: how to save him; how to explain; how to love him again knowing that they must run or she will lose him all over again. She wonders how she explains to him that she was weak and turned against him and she could kill herself for it.

Hand shaking, she reaches out and brushes against his shoulder. His eyes snap open and his arm whips around, fingers wrapped against her slim wrist. She watches as the sleep clears from his eyes and recognizes her. Something in his face becomes clearer and lighter; it becomes so pure she can feel her heart break. She takes her index finger and brushes it across every freckle on his face. He doesn't move, he just watches her.

Her lips part and she speaks her first words in many moons – the first since she had last left him. She leans close to his ear, his hair tickling across her cheekbones and she tells him, "run."

He leans away, taking in her face. "Run?" He questions. "What's happening?"

"They're coming," she tells him urgently, her vocal cords aching and crying with every word but she spits them out. "You must go."

"You come too," he clasps her hand in his, bringing her palm to over his heart. He's not letting her go.

Her eyes grow wide. She doesn't know how to tell them that she can't. She must fall into the arms of the Agency and pretend that she is a puppet. She can't put into words what she has done to him and she just can't do that right now – they have no time. The Agency could be here any minute and he has to go.

"I can't." She finds herself squeezing his hand, trying to let him know everything she doesn't have time or the language to utter. "And I can't tell you all that I've done but I need you to know that I'm sorry for it and I deserve to be punished."

"What could you have done to deserve to be punished?" His voice is low and husky and her insides are melting because he just sounds so goddamn wonderful.

But she can't respond; can't speak her sins to him only to stain his ears. She kisses him deeply, instead. She remembers the way his lips move against her and he tastes wonderfully spicy and she can't help but need more. She leans into him and he's like air to breathe. He's heavy and wonderful and when he flips her onto her back, rough and dangerous but so sweet and gentle with her, she lets out a cry of relief. Because this is real and for now, she has him again. There's tears on her pale eyes as they move together, music once again.

He notices her tears and kisses them away, asking if he's done something .And how could she say that it's not him but what she's done to him. It's her and all that she's got inside of her; melting and awful and she's always destined to hurt him no matter what she does and if she loved him she would just stay away from him but she's such a selfish creature. So she runs her hands across her skin and tries not to believe that this will end.

But it does end. He's got two tickets to New Zealand but she knows that he can't go there. He needs to go somewhere further, somewhere unexpected. She tells him so as she packs his suitcases. He's rushing around along with her, words spewing from his mouth, trying to convince her to go. She tells him no – that she has things to do before they can ever be reunited. She needs to close her eyes and think deeply about what their next move can be because they need to be smart about it. Neither of them can survive this going wrong again.

She kisses him deeply. She asks him about pills – something that would knock her out completely for hours. He doesn't question her because he trusts her and they love one another. He has pills like that and he gives her one. She kisses him again and whispers a date and a time and a place in his ear. He tucks the words into his heart, already dreaming toward that day when they will be together and nothing can separate them.

They share one last kiss before he sneaks away. She retires to his bedroom, breathing in his scent. She glances out the window and sees that the Agency is on its way. She's smug now, like her mother, and she lies down on his blankets. She pulls the comforter over her head, tumbling into sweet oblivion.

(-.-)

She's frozen. She's sick. She's dying.

There, on the screen in front of her, is everything that happened between her and him. It's laid out in black and white that she knew what she was doing. She helped him get away. She's not one of them and they've lost her completely. Once again she's facing the grim faced Agent with her stony parents on either side of her. The Agent babbles words that fly over her head but she knows this is it. She will never meet him. She won't show up.

The Agent stands her up and there are cuffs locked around her wrists. Her mother is crying and her father looks faint but she turns her head against it; dark hair falling across her eyes and hiding who she is from them. They never accepted her anyway. She's being marched out the doors, no doubt to the holding cell when her mother screams.

"What have you done to us? Where is my baby girl? How could you let us down like this? You could have gone so far, Violet!"

Her head flops down even lower. She could have fit into their mold or they could have let her be her own person. Could blame really fall somewhere? She doesn't think so. But she can feel something heavy on her – a cloak, a weight, a darkness that she can never shrug. Because she failed herself and she failed him and she can only pray that no one ever gets him, that he remains out there, free and beautiful and sparking like the fire that resides within her heart for him. She was never meant to love anyone else, and she never will.

They tuck her away in her heavily fortified cell with her platoon of guards and she just curls up on the floor. She deserves no less than this. She is a liar, a betrayer. She cannot stay true to herself let alone anyone else so how could she deserve to love and be loved? She doesn't. She deserves this cold room that she will never, ever leave.

She lays her head down on the floor and fails miserably in her attempt not to cry. There are tears on her cheeks and she shakes with the effort because she simply can't hold all of this emotion in. She wants him in her arms because she belongs in his but it doesn't work like that. She bought into the Agency's lies that claimed he didn't care about her and he threw her around but he didn't, wouldn't, couldn't. He loved her more than he loved himself and that said a lot because she knew that he was a very arrogant person but not around her.

They had never had to pretend around one another because they were both aware that the other had flaws but those flaws did not make either any less but in fact made them more. Instead of picking away at one another they embraced each other and it was beautiful. They were not broken dolls and torn dreams but they were whole and radiant and now they were apart and it just wasn't fair. How could they fall in love with one another just to be continuously torn apart? It was heartbreaking and body shattering and mind tearing and she just wanted to turn away from it all.

She contemplates the ceiling and wonders if it would be worth it. She's in jail forever now – a threat to society and a traitor to the Agency. There's nothing left for her out there but him (her family sure hates her now, pushing her away and telling her that she'll never be enough when she's never even wanted to be their enough) and she's never going to see him again. For his own safety, he can never see her again. And she wishes it weren't true and that she still has him and that she wasn't so stupid to lose him in her own mind but she was and she doesn't have him and it is true. It's all true.

So why not slip off her shirt and hang her body from that far off roof that sparkles and grins and seems to be so inviting?

The answer comes in the flash of orange and a daring bit of freckle, framed against the ceiling. She has to hope. She cannot slip up and give up on him before they even have a chance to prove themselves. Love is supposed to transcend everything and she can't quite give that up yet. She shouldn't give up on herself and she couldn't give up on him but it was oh so tempting. Her white knight may not be him but it could be the ceiling, growling and cursing but perhaps the only thing that can rescue her and drag her from this painful place that stabs her heart until it bleeds.

But she can no longer feel.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my amazing beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Eyes Of The Devil**_** by **_**Seether**_**.**

**~TLL~**


	6. Chapter 6

_So run with the eyes of the devil_

_And keep them in your dreams_

_If you succumb to the lies of the rebel_

_You'll cleanse yourself of me_

** She's curled into his chest and it's so beautiful. He's covered in a haze and her eyes can't quite focus but that's okay because she knows it's him. She's safe and she's warm and she's tucked against his chest. There's a rocking motion but that's okay, it's comfortable and wonderful and he's right there so nothing could be wrong anyway. She burrows her head into his shoulder and closes her eyes, enjoying the closeness. **

** It's when the rocking motion stops that she suddenly opens her eyes. She's not in his arms anymore – in fact all that's around her is darkness and more darkness that will never ever end. She wonders where he is and lets out a cry, demanding he come back but the sound doesn't even reach her own ears. **

** Out of the blackness wanders the members of the Agency. They are angry and fearsome with bleeding eyes and fanged mouths. They are the members that haunted her in her cell: the ones that medicated her and tried to change her again but that she fought against. They are creeping toward her, grotesque puppets that are reaching for her throat. Her scream gets caught against her rippled vocal cords and she cannot make a sound.**

** Behind the Agency emerges her mother and father who are even more gaunt looking; more destroyed and evil than the Agency. They are not out to possess her, to utilize her and take over her like the Agency. They are looking for blood because they have been betrayed by her, they have been ashamed of her, they have cried over her, they have lost their little girl and the only regret she feels is that she has not won against them. They are prevailing and broken in the triumph.**

** She tries to scurry away, tries to fight against them but she knows that there is no other way. She has to join them. She has no other option. There are hands on her and she feels like she's being suffocated and there's no escape because their claws are in her flesh and they won't let go. She starts to fall apart and they're ripping piece after piece away from her and she can't do anything but succumb.**

(-.-)

She wakes up in a place that is unfamiliar. It is not her cell where she has spent the past few weeks with the same few walls and the rotating guards and the medication that tastes bitter like poison on her tongue. She is on a soft bed and there are pillows the colour of the sea underneath her head. There is snow outside the window (_snow, window; all these things have become so unfamiliar during her imprisonment)_ and it is blustering and going and it looks like how she feels on the inside. It's all turmoil and half-finished thoughts and something that most people turn away from.

Shakily, she rocks onto weak legs. She stumbles out of the room she is in and out into a hallway. She follows the hallway toward sound – clanking and clicking and rumbling. She's in a kitchen and he's standing there, turning bacon in a pan and stirring something that smells delicious. She doesn't say a word but he knows that she's there and all he says (after all this time and their separation and all that lays between them) is, "are you hungry?"

But oh god yes she is. She's got questions about how she got here and where they are going but she's so hungry. It's been weeks since she's had any proper food and when he sets a plate piled high with steaming breakfast she doesn't care where she is or why he has her and what happened but he's there and she's hungry and nothing else really matters right now.

He rubs small circles on her back as she finishes the last of her plate and she leans into him. She feels content and relaxed and it's already complete. It doesn't feel like it's going to end or there's going to be a goodbye in their futures anymore. There's her and there's him and there are years and decades and so much stretching in front of them and it's just so beautiful.

He kisses her temple and says, "I love you."

She squeezes his hand. "I love you too."

"Did you know I would come for you?"

"I knew. But I didn't want you to."

"Why?"

"You'd be putting yourself in danger."

"But I would have you back."

"I'm really not worth it."

"Maybe not to yourself but you are to me."

"Why?"

"Because you're mine. You're the only one I was meant to love."

"Promise me we'll never be apart again."

"Never, my Violet. Never."

And it's enough for them.

(-.-)

She's never looked more beautiful to him although she feels as though she's had better days. She feels awful and sticky with sweat and her skin doesn't feel like skin or even her own; her chest is heaving and she feels broken from the inside out but there's nothing that can be done for it. It's all over now anyway and he's standing over her with the tiny bundle in his arms that is their daughter. She's reaching for that tiny thing and he sits next to her and there she is; all red faces and flailing limbs and giant eyes that cries and looks in wonder all at the same time.

It's all so perfect that she thinks her heart could break.

"Name?" The doctor asks, Russian accent thick as she watches the happy couple.

She freezes, running her thumb across the face of her tiny babe. They have been living under false identities so long that in the dead of night she has to get him to tell her the old name she used to carry and just how darling it was and how she's the same no matter what she goes by. She looks down at her baby and thinks of what she and he go by now and how she wants a true name for her child.

"Kalyn Helen Pine," she says under her breath, watching his face as she does so. She sees it in his eyes that he wants so bad to give her this name; to let her carry this. But it's so dangerous and they can't.

He leans his cheek against her hair. "Kalyn Helen Parn," he corrects, voicing what they go by now.

She focuses on her daughter and nods but she can't take her eyes off of the little girl whose identity is already lost. She can never know who her parents truly are; what her last name should be. She can never meet her grandparents or her uncles. She can never know that she's not supposed to exist – a mix of villain and super that has never happened before. It's scary for parents, she knows, all parents. But it's different for them. They are fugitives and from here on out, it's not just them anymore. Their priority has to be their baby.

She rests her head against his shoulder and breathes. They're together and this is what she's needed her whole life. They've been safe for over a decade and it's been the most breathless experience of her life. She misses her parents and she misses her brothers but she'd had to stick to her own path and he was that path. If they had understood her, understood her choices, things would be different, but they didn't understand and it left her out in the rain. She harbors hopes that someday they will be found and it won't end up like the other times; it's been long enough that people have accepted them – her parents have accepted them and forced the Agency to – and they can be in harmony together.

Her baby begins to cry. She curls her daughter to her chest, giving her baby what she needs. He's watching over the both of them as he always will be. He is their protector and nothing will touch them so long as he breathes, so long as there is life left in him (and perhaps even after that) he will be there for them. He curls his body around hers – still so small and graceful, childish almost against his – and everything is as it should be.

(-.-)

There are complications.

Nothing is as it should be.

There are doctors running around; nurses darting in and out. He's forced out of the room and he paces in front of the door like an angry animal. His love is in there, his daughter: his whole heart is confined in that room that he can't even see into; that he is forced to be ignorant to. The figures that flash in and out can tell him nothing. They stare at him with sorrowful eyes and try to hide their blood soaked gloves but it just doesn't work like that. He sees everything and it makes him more and more anxious. He wants to explode into the room and demand to know what's going on but he fears it will make everything worse.

This is why he waits on the opposite side of the door, left alone with his hope. After everything that he has suffered through and everything that she has suffered through they cannot lose each other now; they cannot lose their life now. He collapses with his head in his hands and he prays that it be okay – that though it appears bad it is something that is easily fixed. He sits and he waits, keeping his eyes off of the ghostly, scrub clad forms that waft past him on rushing feet; this is for his own sanity.

It seems an eternity until there is someone crouching next to him; a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He doesn't find the hand reassuring and jumps when he's touched. His head flies up and he finds himself staring into the eyes of the doctor that delivered his baby; that was supposed to take care of his girl.

"We are sorry," the doctor begins and he can feel his heart stop. Sorry? Sorry for what?

He stares at her for a long minute, watching her face crumple and change as the doctor attempts to find her words.

"We lost your daughter."

There is a howl of anguish, beating against his chest and shattering the bones within him. He tamps down on it, closing himself off against the pain that still explodes through him like an earthquake. She was so little and had seemed so healthy; so beautiful, an epitome of perfection if there ever was one.

"And . . . " he manages to force between his teeth, the words hard like pearls. He's too afraid to ask about her, the love of his life. If he's somehow lost them both then all that he is will be gone too.

"Your wife is fine." The doctor pauses. "There was some heavy bleeding and she'll have to take it easy but it's all been stopped now. We had to put her into a medical coma due to the pain. She'll come out of it in the early morning."

The doctor's eyes meet his and he understands the message loud and clear: she doesn't know. When she wakes up in the morning and he delivers the news, she'll hate him for it. He hates himself for knowing, for having to tell her. Their baby is gone hours after taking her first breath and nothing can be done to counter that. Nothing will bring that dark haired babe with the odd assortment of freckles back to them. They'll need each other more than ever.

He rises from the floor, stumbling to her bedside. Her face is wiped clean; her mind in a place he cannot fathom and cannot reach her in. He hopes that she's happy in that place – hopes she's somewhere so beautiful that when she wakes up the utter peace of it will stay with her. As he kisses her forehead he realizes how unlikely this is. No matter what, when she wakes, her arms will be empty and she will be as broken as he.

He touches her china doll face and wants to cry.

She was never meant to be this broken.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my talented beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Eyes Of The Devil**_** by **_**Seether**_**.**

**~TLL~**


	7. Chapter 7

_Jesus, save me! (I'm weak)_

_Jesus, save me from me_

She can't think, can't breathe. She hasn't been able to move or think in months and he doesn't know what to do or how to help her. She's locked in her own mind and no amount of coaxing and pleading and crying to her will help. She simply begs for her lost daughter and it breaks his heart in two because that is the one thing that he cannot give her; if he could simply will their daughter back she would be in their arms already.

He cannot watch her die from the inside out any longer. He bundles her in blankets and packs their bags. They are going to head for a change of scenery; away from where the remains of the baby lays where they cannot reach. He is going to take her home for the first time in many years – so many years that he hopes the animosities have blown away and that her family will believe him when he says he loves her.

She doesn't fight him when they board the plane. She doesn't ask where they are going. She rests her head on his shoulder and doesn't bother to feign interest. She plays with his shirtsleeve for the hours on the plane; never sleeping, never speaking, never acknowledging his presence. It's almost a relief when the plane touches down: he's hoping that familiar surroundings will shock her back to who she was (he understands that she's been changed irrevocably – he has too – but she's so foreign and alien that he doesn't know what more he can do, he wants at least a piece of the woman he used to know to fall back into place so that he has a starting point because he doesn't know where else he can go from here).

She doesn't react to the city she had grown up around. She doesn't seem to acknowledge where they are at all. He hails them a taxi, placing her in the backseat and the bags in the trunk. He gets in beside her and directs the driver to a hotel. They are near her former home and he wonders if she knows; he also wonders if her family still resides there – her parents at least because now her brothers will be all grown up and flown from the nest.

He's terrified of leaving her alone but he knows that she'll be safe, tucked up in bed as she is, as she's been for months. She doesn't seem to realize that this is a different bed than where she has been lying before. It's pillows and blankets and she's piling them around her in some vain attempt to feel secure. He kisses her head and tells her that he'll be back soon. She doesn't seem to realize that he's there or that he's leaving.

He walks the short distance to her house, keeping his hood up against the cool fall air and his distinct features; he's still an outlaw on the run and so is she. He knocks on the door of the house that he once stole a child from and queasiness enters him full throttle. From here on out it's the unknown and he's never liked surprises but this is all for her so he can bear whatever comes next.

Her father answers the door and he's not sure if this is better or worse than Helen Parr answering. He doesn't give the older man a chance to talk, blurting out, "we need to talk."

"Like hell we do," Bob retorted, filling the entire doorway, still strong despite his age. "You destroyed my daughter."

"Sir," he struggles to keep his composure, reminding himself of how long it took for him and her to fully understand their relationship and the impossible consequences it presented for both of them. It would take her parents so much longer considering all that they had been through. He reminds himself that her parents have suffered too. "With all due respect, I love your daughter and that's why I'm here. She needs help and I'm at a loss to how to do that."

Bob glares down his nose and it makes him feel so incredibly tiny. "Please," he manages and Bob must see that he is sincere because he's let into the house. He's lead to a kitchen where Helen is holding a pot above her head – a makeshift weapon – and threatening to call the Agency.

It's only after he begs for her help and details the horrible situation that is going on with the one he loves – every last grisly detail that he tried to banish from his mind because it was just too much to see her like that because he loved her so much – that Helen puts the pot down, tears in her eyes.

"All she wanted to do," Helen says but he's unsure whether she's speaking to herself, her husband or him, "was be in love and we couldn't let her have that. Why couldn't I –" She forces herself to stop. "Can I see her?"

He knows that he has to let them see her but first he must clarify, "you understand that I love her? That I never did anything on purpose to hurt her? She is my entire world and I cannot breathe without her next to me."

They look at each other and they look back at him. "We understand."

He takes them to her.

She doesn't seem to recognize that they are there.

Days, weeks, agonizing months pass. Her parents are there every step of the way with him now, begging her to come back to them. She is moved into her untouched childhood bedroom and he takes the room next door. He runs to her when she cries out in the night but she ignores his touch, is oblivious to his presence. She is locked inside of her own mind and he cannot help her out. He's reaching and trying but she's too far gone to hold his hand and let him drag her out of her own depths. She's stuck and broken and he's at a loss and shattered. He can't do anything more and neither can they but no one can give up because that will mean she's truly gone and no one is ready to accept that yet.

He's sitting at the foot of her bed, thinking about how beautiful she is even though her face is not animated and her eyes are lost, looking to a place that he can't see but that she now spends her entire life in. He runs his hand along her calf but she just stays drowsy and gone.

"Violet," he whispers her name, her true name that he had only been allowed to speak in the moonlight as the stars drew patterns across her back. She doesn't blink, just stares out the window.

He crawls so that he is lying next to her. The outline of her body is flush against his. Her mind and emotions are so far away. He wonders if she is with their daughter. He wonders if she's happy. He hopes that she is but then again, if she is happy with her mind so far away, who is he to bring her back? He runs his hand along her spine and into the web of her dark hair. Slowly, he rolls her over onto her back. He cradles her face in his hand, her bones so tiny and delicate against his callouses. She's so beautiful and empty and all of his insides cry for her because she is so lost to even herself. He leans down so that his breath is along her ear, his words pouring straight into her soul.

"I love you Violet. I need you to come back to me, my love." He pulls back so that he can see her eyes – so colourful and fascinating and windows to her ripped insides – and hopes that they'll change. They'll clear and not be so hazy as pieces of her tumble back from where they disappeared to.

There's nothing and he tries a last ditch attempt – something true and pure, spoken of in the eldest of fairytales – he pulls her to him, her body limp in his arms like a rag doll. Her lips are pale, softest of rosy pinks, and he presses them to his own. They're sweet and taste of her but utter little and are motionless against him. He holds their embrace for as long as he can stand, before he lays her back on the bed. She doesn't move, barely breathes, her tattered heart weak against his palm. He wraps his arms around her unresponsive body and buries his head in her small shoulders. He shakes them both as he cries into her shoulder; tiny and bony as a bird's fragile wing.

He sobs until he falls asleep but tears never stop dripping down his face.

(-.-)

He's awakened by a feather on his cheek; a butterfly wing that traces against his jawbone. He opens his eyes with confusion; it's been so long since he's fallen asleep next to her that he has forgotten what it feels like. She's soft and beautiful against him and has the haze clears from his brightening eyes, he realizes the feather, the butterfly wing, is her index finger, the nail tickling and whispering against him. He finds her face and sees that she is looking back at him, not just staring blankly in his direction but _looking_ at him. She is _seeing_ him.

He raises himself up, almost not believing it. She's not so far away anymore; she's right next to him. He brushes her hair behind her ears, taking in the full beauty of her pale face and dainty features and those eyes that have depth and wonder for the first time in so long.

"Violet," he breathes as if he's in a dream; the stars are lying and the world is lying but this is the most gorgeous lie he's ever had the pleasure of living and he wouldn't dare do anything to wake himself up.

Her index finger is tracing spirals across his face, memorizing his features all over again. "Buddy," she replies, her voice equally as wispy and unsure, "I always knew you were there."

"I would never give up on you, my love." And he never would. She's as much a part of him as his own hand and he would never rid himself of something so vital. She's essential to his being; his make-up; his life.

She drops her hand to his collarbone, tracing the unbreakable strength that lies just under his flesh; freckled all over his body. "I'm sorry I gave up on me," she whimpers and he can see the tears glossing in her eyes. "You did so much for me – my parents, I knew, I did, I just couldn't say." She breaks down but keeps bubbling words out under her heaves and cries, "I wanted to say but I couldn't reach out. I was locked away and trapped and I missed you while I was there."

He holds her tight, feeling her shivering and quaking; he squeezes her together, to keep her from flying apart and ripping at the seams for everything to pour out of her: there would be nothing left.

Her next ones were small and tiny, "I miss her."

"I miss her too." They meet each other's eyes and know that they understand each other's pain without words; without needing to explain because they each feel the same rips and breaks because their scars match. It is the last time they speak of her, though she walks between them every day.

She kisses him then. It's long and deep and he falls in love with her all over again as her fingers splay across his chest and he can feel her in every pulse of his heart. He knows that he lives in her too and they were meant to fall in love. Their time loving each other was a whirlwind experience; the time of their life that they would never take back or reclaim, no matter how many battles scars they'd had to acquire despite all the love that passed between them. It might not have been fair to them but it was beautiful and even though they ached sometimes, there is always beauty in pain.

**I don't own anything recognizable. Thanks to my amazing beta: Noble6. The song is **_**Eyes Of The Devil**_** by **_**Seether**_**.**

**~TLL~**


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